


Love's Not Time's Fool Part I Ch.2

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"These are the times that try men's souls." Thomas Paine<br/>One year post-513</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Not Time's Fool Part I Ch.2

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Shakespeare's Sonnet #116  
> Queer as Folk is the property of its owners. No copyright infringement intended.

  
                                                             

       Brian’s POV

  
                 _“What I'd give to run my fingers through your hair, to touch your lips, to hold you near._  
_When you say your prayers, try to understand I've made mistakes, I'm just a man.” ©J.Bonjovi_

     
       Thank fucking God my shit day is over! I couldn’t get to the loft fast enough, running a red light and narrowly avoiding a couple of near misses in my personal grand prix race to get there. I maneuvered the ‘vette through the maze of rush hour traffic at an impressive speed. Definitely would have been ticketed if a cop had been around—unless he was a fag cop who realized he had pulled over Brian Kinney. Then I could have fucked my way out of one.

       I give a vicious tug on the door and it welcomes me home with a groan. My flinch at the grating metal surprises me. Most of the time, the clang isn’t a blip on my subconscious radar. Most of the time. But today, the noise startles me out of thoughts that have become unwelcome friends this year. I’ve tried purging them with a wide assortment of artificial and illegal products, but it hasn’t worked. It never does.

       After an unsatisfactory wank in the shower, I drag on jeans and head toward the bar, thankful I had the foresight yesterday to replenish my stock. A mere prequel to the main event, the generous amount of Beam I pour disappears in two needy gulps. If nothing else, I’m predictable, as Justin was so fond of reminding me whenever he had the chance.

       My hand automatically refills the glass, and I slam back another two fingers worth to hurry the evening along. This time the heat registers. I cough and sputter as the burning liquid slides down my throat before coating my insides with much needed warmth.      

       I’m in a funk. Have been since he left, and no amount of fucking or sucking, drugging or drinking has the power to pull me out of the quicksand. Believe me, it’s not for lack of effort. Only one thing, one _person_ can. And he’s in New York—where he should be, where he belongs. I’ve tried to tell myself it’s the right decision, that I should be okay with it. But if it _is_ right, why does it feel wrong?

_“Every time I think of you, I always catch my breath. I’m still standing here and you’re miles away.”_ _©J.Waite_

       I found him one Pittsburgh night under the stars after too much booze, too many drugs, and a mediocre blowjob. I didn’t know it then, but there’s a huge difference between meeting someone and finding someone. The terms appear to be interchangeable. Trust me, they’re not. Finding someone comes with a fucking scary caveat—the possibility of losing them.

       Despite a bottomless pit for a stomach that growls noisily when it needs to be fed, often at the most inopportune times; a fashion sense, or lack of it, that would make the designer gods scream in frustration; and a childlike giggle that makes him sound as if he’s ten, he’s easy to love. He’s wiser at his age than I am at mine, as strong and unafraid as I am weak and terrified. His touch is kind and gentle, his words, truthful and honest. And with a smile brighter than the sun, he makes me laugh. Sometimes I even make him laugh.

       When I’m with him, the age difference never enters my mind. To be blunt, when I’m with him, nothing enters my mind other than fucking him, which proves sexual attraction is a form of insanity. It’s when I’m not with him and can think rationally without being under the influence of all things Justin, that it’s a problem, one more stumbling block in a maladjusted relationship that never should have begun. No matter how hard I try, I can’t see a future for us. At least, not the future I know he wants.

                                                      _“The soul takes pictures of things it has wished for but never seen.”_ _A.Sexton_

       I need to think without him dancing in front of my eyes. I scrub my hands over my face and give a vigorous shake of my head to clear the cobwebs. Not a smart move. Attacked by a tidal wave of nausea, I fling curses at the remaining Beam, rush to the kitchen for a bottle of water, and chug half of it. After a couple of deep breaths, I sip the rest at a more leisurely pace, weighing my options. With my stomach continuing its protest, I pad to the sofa, pretending not to notice my barefoot shuffle is the only noise in the loft. The cavernous space used to be so small and loud. When did it get so big and silent, so _empty_?

_“Living without you, living alone. This empty house seems so cold._  
                                              _Wanting to hold you, wanting you near. How much I want you home.”_ _©Cain/Perry_

       Bottle in hand, I sink into the plush leather. Cocooned in its luxury, I stretch my legs out on the coffee table and indulge in a memory that changed my life six years ago. We’re different people now, with lives and disconnects driving us further apart instead of bringing us together. And I blame myself—not only for letting the blond twink on the street corner slip through my fingers, but because I’m on the verge of doing it again with the man he’s become.

_“I know you’re different. You know I’m the same._  
_We’re both too busy to be taking the blame._  
                                                                   _We fight the fire while we’re feeding the flame.”_ _©Rush_

       Any glimmers of hope at the illusive brass ring fade faster than a setting sun as days, weeks, and months bleed seamlessly into each other. I shave in the morning to get ready for another wasted day and empty night.

_“At the office she drinks another coffee and finds it hard to stay awake. It’s just another day._  
                                             _Sometimes she feels so sad. Alone in her apartment she dwells." ©McCartney_

       I’m a realist. I see the world in black and white. There are no shades of gray. Not to resort to musical clichés, but as time keeps on slipping into the future, what I see is that my time is running out. I have only a small window of opportunity to get my shit together. The question is—to do what?

       At times like these, I sometimes, make that very rarely, wish I had someone who would listen without offering advice or judgment, someone I could just unload on. In the 'old days,' I would have gotten shit-faced with Mikey and let him pry it out of me. Not anymore. True, we share a history, but we’re not as close.

                                 _“You know that I could use somebody, someone like you and all you know and how you speak.”_ _©M.S.Music_

       Our friendship never got back on track after derailing last year with the “baby, baby, who gets the baby” debacle and the sanctimonious crap he pulled when Justin and I broke up—okay, when he left. We’ve tentatively repaired what was broken in an uneasy detente, but it’s not the same. I don’t think it ever will be, and it hurts like hell, probably in more ways than I’m aware of and for reasons only a shrink could enravel.

       I'm not surprised there’s no one else for the job after flipping through my mental rolodex of friends. Justin would bust a gut over the term 'friends.' Discounting his reactions to Mel’s never ending bitchiness, I’ve seen him stiffen at Lindsay’s comments, heard his frustrated whoosh of air at Deb’s cracks. And Mikey? He pushes _all_ of his buttons. Discounting their business partnership, they barely tolerate each other. I don’t think Justin will ever trust him, too many shitty attempts to cause trouble and split us up. Michael resents him, considers him a threat, and from what I found out, hasn’t been shy about expressing his opinions, even to his face.

       I discovered that unfortunate fact by accident. Debbie slipped up and told me about their heated clash outside the diner during the fiddler fiasco. So Justin’s experienced the vitriol firsthand. And I'd be willing to bet that wasn’t the only time. But he never said anything _because of me._ He used to complain I went overboard wanting to shield him. Sunshine should take a good look in the mirror. Underneath the puppy dog eyes and angelic face is the determination and protectiveness of a pit bull, particularly where I’m concerned. We’re both guilty.

       He often accused me of not letting him be his own man, declaring that my oversized ego and narcissistic predisposition to control everyone and everything included him. I’ve given these charges a lot of thought. Full disclosure? I’m willing to concede maybe he’s a little right. What bothers me is I don’t know why. Is it strength and self-centeredness or fear and weakness? If it’s the latter, if it’s because I need him to need me, that’s fucked up. Even I know that. But in my defense, some of his choices have been questionable at least, dangerous at most. He acts before he thinks.

       Although my maturity is often contested and, after meeting Justin, my sanity hotly debated, every instinct says I should let him go, let the past stay where it belongs, in the past. To quote a couple of hackneyed phrases, a mature and sane course of action would be to _let sleeping dogs lie_ because _what’s done is done._ They make me want to puke or throw something.

       But an inescapable fact brings me up short—his life is just beginning. Like a bubble soaring in the wind, who knows how far he can go, what he can achieve with his talent. He doesn’t need a not-yet-over-the-hill-still-in-his-prime-fuck-legend to keep him tied up in the Pitts with a ball and chain around his cock. Shit, if that doesn’t conjure up images worthy of a Crystal Dick award!

_“But don’t let him go, Just give him a chance to grow. Take it easy, take it slow. And don’t let him go.”_ _©K.Cronin_

       A blaring horn from the street nearly throws me off the sofa. I must have been daydreaming longer than I realized because the only illumination in the loft is from the staggered lights of surrounding buildings. Dancing shadows on the walls keep me pathetically entertained by changing shape and form with the headlights of passing cars.

       My eyes wander to the coffee table and an iron fist tightens around my chest. Mother Taylor’s not so subtle hint, conveniently left during one of her conscientious “make sure Brian is alive and kicking” visits, taunts me in a silent dare. Little does it know, I don’t do well with dares. 

      
         

         Fuck it! Emotional self-pity makes my dick soft. I whip out my cell phone and dial.

                                             _“Come on, let’s see what you’ve got. Just take your best shot and don’t blow it.”_

 

**Continue here:** <http://archiveofourown.org/works/842695>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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